


Dove

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:31:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air is thick, and hot, and dust settles dry against the rims and tyres of the car when they pull over to the shoulder, faces set against the sun. Drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dove

The air is thick, and hot, and dust settles dry against the rims and tyres of the car when they pull over to the shoulder, faces set against the sun.

“They’ll think I knocked you up.” Dean mutters wryly, and Castiel cuffs him with a wrist as they stumble and trip into the empty chapel, perched like a birdhouse by the side of the highway.

Castiel wanders. For him, this is a pilgrimage, a rite; it has little to do with Dean, and more to do with how the rafters of the small church swoop high above their heads; the dove-shaped carved opening above the altar. There’s some kind of magic here, something Dean knows nearly nothing of, except that Castiel has it in every inch of him; curved along the arches of his toes, and heels, and footsteps; nestled against his ankles; folded carefully into the corners of his eyes.

He’s been cracking wise all the way here, but now that they’ve arrived, he falls silent.

He sits himself quietly in front of the altar, as Castiel makes his rounds. The chapel is  _tiny;_ barely anyone comes here anymore, and every inch of it but the cracked flagstone floor is wood painted white, and peeling. Castiel stops in the middle of the aisle, eventually, and rocks on his toes. He took his shoes off in the car, so now his bare feet slap against the floors, soles of them turning black with dirt.

He looks at Dean, and he smiles; walks over, and pulls him to his feet.

“It’s not official.” Dean murmurs once they’ve left, and Castiel just laughs; the car’s hood is too hot to sit on, boiled quickly by the stifling sun, but he ghosts his hand over it in a careful wave, then fits that warm hand to Dean’s neck.

“Does it matter?” he replies, and Dean shrugs, thinking of how the chapel had echoed.

No priest, no minister, no clergy; no registry to sign. Not even a witness to say that it happened, and for all intents and purposes, maybe it didn’t.

Castiel slips his hand briefly into Dean’s, and kisses him, before he gets back in the car. Dean follows suit.

In the chapel they leave only the faint ring of laughter; the soft, bitter smell of sweat. The round, transient shapes of Castiel’s footprints in the dust. 


End file.
